


The First Age

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Age, General
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 07:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3720463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here follows the story of the Noldorin exiles, specifically including the sons of Fëanor, and, later on, Fingolfin and his kin. It will follow them throughout the majority of the First Age, and into the wilderness through Ossiriand and Doriath, Hithlum and even into the very precipices of the Thangorodrim; and the greatest cities in Beleriand - Nargothrond, Gondolin, and, perhaps, a look into some of the lesser-known cities - Vinyamar, and perhaps Belegost. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Age

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The rest of our host ran up the Ard-Galen, trying to catch up with Atar and the few Elves about him. We kept straight ahead. And then I saw it. A huge, monstrous being, a creature of both shadow and flame, carrying a whip of firebrand. And Atar. Dressed in his gleaming armour of gold, wielding his long, wickedly sharp lord, red as blood, his long black hair streaming beneath his shining helm, he looked as magnificent as a Vala. But I no longer recognised him as my Atar.

This was not the same Elf who forged us precious jewels for birthday presents, and spent many arduous hours teaching me his Tengwar. This Elf was a warrior, a great King, beautiful and terrible, but not my father. 

“Atar!” Curufinwë screamed beside me, charging towards him, taking no heed of the danger before us.  
I ran with him, shortly followed by Tyelkormo and Carnistir. We were all yelling, indiscernible sounds of rage and anguish, but we did not reach him fast enough. The monster struck down upon him more times than we could bear to count, but still Atar stood, every blow almost fuelling his powerful defence.

We reached him at last, Curufinwë and Tyelkormo launching themselves into the midst of the battle, with the rest of the Elves, destroying Morgoth’s host, but Carnistir and I carried Atar off the battlefield – he was too weak to argue, and that was a fearsome thing in itself. 

His face, though scorched, was still fair and his eyes were still aflame. “Curvo! Turko! Get over here! NOW!” I found myself yelling. Macalaurë and Ambarussa had stayed behind in Mithrim with a remainder of the Elves to try to fortify the defences.

“Atar!” Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, the strongest, the most powerful of all of us, were weeping openly, but Carnistir and I remained silent. “There is nothing that can prevent my passing now,” Atar looked at us. “I am fading. It is our duty to rule now. I look to you to be strong. To be strong for the Noldor.” His breathing became ragged. “I curse Morgoth, and the day he entered into our lives.” His breath became quiet and his eyes widened. “Remember your Oath.” He grew still and his eyes stared, unseeing. 

 

Carnistir looked as though nothing had happened, just staring ahead, unblinking and unfocused. Curufinwë, always his father’s son, began howling, and fell to his knees, and the rest of us knelt around him. Tyelkormo, still silently weeping, placed a hand on Atar’s forehead and began offering up many prayers to Mandos. But before he could finish them, something happened that shocked us all. Our Atar, instead of remaining peaceful in death, fell away to ash in the breeze. 

Now I was crying too, for the face that I would never see again, whose presence, even in the darkness of the Outer Lands, never failed to comfort me in some small way.

Carnistir turned and looked at me, his eyes red but dry. “Nelyo, you are our King now.”  
And in that one moment, I felt more terrified than at any other time. I now held the responsibility for my brothers, and for my people. My people relied on them. They relied on me. I relied on no-one.

Tyelkormo (always the hasty-riser) stood first, wiping away his tears with the back of his hand. He tried to smile bravely, but even the sight of his handsome face, swift to anger but swifter to laugh, gave me no heart. He placed a hand lightly on my shoulder. “Come, Nelyo.” He spoke quietly. “We must return to Mithrim, with all haste. We must bring the news to Macalaurë and Ambarussa, if nothing else.”

“You’re right,” I nodded, and stood up, followed by Carnistir. But Curufinwë still remained crouching and howling. Tyelkormo knelt next to him; we all knew that he was the only one who could get him up again. “Curufinwë,” he told him softly, “Be brave for him. Be brave for Atar. Do not let his struggles have been in vain. We cannot shame his House now.”

Curufinwë remained silent, but got to his feet, though leaning heavily against Tyelkormo. We moved back down the Ard-Galen with our people, slowly, and in silence, until we arrived in Hithlum, and to the still waters of Mithrim.   
We found our way through the maze of tents, to Macalaurë’s. He saw our red eyes and damp cheeks. “What’s wrong?” he stood up immediately and stepped towards us. 

“Atar,” Tyelkormo spoke. “He has passed to Mandos beyond the Sea.”

Macalaurë hung his head, but I knew with a bitter certainty that he would not cry.   
“What news have you?” I volunteered at last.  
“None, that I can tell,” Macalaurë looked forlorn. “We have heard no word of Nolofinwë and his host, so we can only assume that they remained with Arafinwë in Valinor.”

Just as Carnistir opened his mouth to speak, the flaps of the tent rustled and another figure stepped in. It was not Ambarussa.  
It was, by appearance, a noble lord, but not one of our kin.   
“Name yourself!” Carnistir cried.

“I am here on the errand of the Lord Melkor,” he said carefully. “He wishes to form an embassy with the King, discussing terms of surrender; for he has seen your lords in battle, and would not wish to find himself against such an adversary.”

“The King is dead,” Curufinwë spoke, for the first time, bitterly.  
“Lord Melkor means the new King, Nelyafinwë.” 

I thought for a long while. There might be a kernel of truth in it, I spoke to myself, but a fool is he to trusts any word of Morgoth. “This I shall discuss with my brothers,” I answered eventually. “And ponder your words, good sir.”

“Ponder well, but not too long,” and he left.  
“It is obviously a trap,” Curufinwë said first. “A fool is he who trusts the word of Morgoth,” he continued, echoing my thoughts.  
“That is most likely,” agreed Tyelkormo, and Carnistir nodded.  
“But I must meet with him nonetheless,” I said.

“Maitimo, don’t be a fool!” Macalaure cried suddenly. “Now is not the time for pointless heroics. Chivalry, I know, is something of a passion of yours, but can you not save it for a more appropriate time? We must fortify our realm, seek out alliances, and build an army before this offer can even be considered!”


End file.
